Page 34 of Pride: Kneel Before None

His response was a contemplative hum. The Drakyn hybrid stepped forward, reaching out until his fingers hovered over the center of my forehead.

“You know who she is. You always have. You just need to remember.”

With that vague nonsense, he tapped my forehead once before disappearing. I blinked rapidly, trying to figure out if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but Val had left me here in this bizarre land of creepy voices and faceless people.

From directly behind me, that same feminine voice purred in my ear.

“Come find me, little echo.”

A hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around until I stumbled and fell backward. My ass hit the plush cushion of an oversized chair. My hands grasped the armrests made of charred wraithwood with silver upholstery accents.

When my vision cleared from the blur of shifting surroundings, I found myself staring at a large mirror. Several large mirrors, to be precise. They surrounded me, each one reflecting a vision of myself sitting in this throne made for someone befitting perfection. Someone like me.

As I looked closer, every image differed slightly. These weren’t reflections of my current self. Some were just subtle changes in expressions. Others, however, were more…unsettling.

Leaning forward in my seat, I squinted at one mirror in particular that caught my attention.

What the hell was wrong with my s⁠—

I gasped, bolting upright. The dreamlike state I had been in broke loose, and consciousness crashed over me. My heart kicked at my ribs wildly. My body felt flushed all over, beads of sweat cool against feverish skin.

Frantically looking around, it took several minutes for my brain to catch up and assess where I was. The fog of whatever state I had been in took its damn sweet time clearing.

First thing I noticed was that I was alone in a bedroom. Second? I recognized the room. The amaryllis flowers in a crystal vase sat on the vanity across from me, the walk-in closet to my right, and the bed was adorned with a variety of pillows and blankets in delicate pinks and creams.

My room, or more accurately, the one Ace had prepared for me.

Running my fingers through my hair, I racked my brain to recall what had happened. Memories returned sluggishly. Ace had left me with that telekinetic Drakyn halfling. We were supposed to play a game that I inevitably would have won. But then everything went blank.

Part of me knew I had dreamt of something, experienced a vision maybe? I couldn’t be sure. Whatever had transpired in my head while I had been asleep was infuriatingly out of reach in my recollection.

Scooting to the edge of the bed, my body felt drained. The movement knocked something off the mattress, and it hit the floor with a solid clunk. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the unexpected sound but remained unable to divert my attention from the task of getting out of bed. A task that felt far more difficult than it should have.

My brain felt like a terrible commercial for an anti-Glayze campaign.

There were commercials. Fucking awful commercials filled with vivid images of a warm glazed doughnut, then the words, “This is your brain.”

The image would flicker, strobing lights flashing and distorted club music playing, until that same doughnut was covered in a five-gallon-bucket-sized amount of glossy, liquid sugar. It looked like fucking jizz…and it drowned that damn doughnut. It left you staring at nothing but a soggy heap of congealed diabetes.

They’d scorch it with an open flame, and then the words, “This is your brain on Glayze,” would scroll across the screen.

Disturbing on so many levels. Effective, but disturbing.

The designer drug, Glayze, was for paranormal entities looking to escape the pressures of wreaking havoc. It was for those who were tired of failing to live up to expectations of wicked delights, and those who bore the burden of awkward social interactions. It supplied soaring confidence that dulled into a syrupy sensation in your veins—or so I had heard. I had never needed artificial means to boost my sense of self-worth.

Still sitting on the edge of the mattress, my feet hovered above the floor while I waited for the haze to clear from behind my eyes. It wasn’t until I attempted to stand that I realized just how out of whack my body was.

I swayed slightly, my knees threatening to buckle, before dropping back down onto the bed. The trembling in my limbs became more noticeable, and the roar of blood rushing in my ears crescendoed to a point where nausea churned in my stomach.

Each ragged breath was a plea for the torturous sensation to pass.

Whether it was minutes or an hour, the disorientation eventually eased into something more tolerable.

Attempt two.

I managed to get onto my feet and even made it to the en suite bathroom. Using cold water, I shocked the last remnants of whatever-the-fuck-was-wrong-with-me out of my system.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I half expected a different version of myself. It was illogical, but something in my subconscious braced for it. Instead, it was just me—as perfect as I’d ever been. Even if my strawberry-blonde strands were sleep-tangled, randomly falling wherever gravity so chose.